Dissonance
by Hera Ledro
Summary: Brome travels south seeking to fill a hole in his life, happening upon Basinshire and the conflict between it and the resident bandits. Cancelled. See my Profile for details.
1. Chapter 1

Dissonance: A Brome Fan-Fiction

**Dissonance: A Brome Fan-Fiction**

SUMMARY – Brome has returned to Noonvale, but does not feel quite at-home anymore. Why is this, and what does Brome do about it? Oneshot.

Story

Brome sat alongside the Broadstream, staring over the ledge that overlooked Noonvale.

Not three weeks had passed since he'd returned to Noonvale, and still it did not feel like home. The trip back had been lonely and depressing, despite the fact that Brome had been surrounded by his friends from the Fur and Freedom Fighters. Even Boldred, the short-eared owl whose company everybeast enjoyed, was unable to cheer up the young mouse.

The problem, Brome discerned, was the absence of Felldoh. The squirrel had been the only one who Brome had felt truly comfortable around, a product of their joint escapade from the prison pit of Fort Marshank.

Felldoh had been Brome's best mate, and that remained the same, even when Felldoh had become more aggressive and rash. Even now, while Felldoh was buried in the woods outside of Fort Marshank, Brome felt that there was nobody he could confide him.

Especially not his father. Not even a fortnight had passed since Urran Voh had spoken privately with Brome. The young mouse had been unable to fathom why his father had been so serious with his request. Not until they had begun the talk…

* * *

When Brome and Urran returned to their home, Urran sat hard in his favourite chair, while Brome leaned against the wall of the wooden lodge. A few moments of silence passed until Urran spoke, and Brome could see the calculating look in his father's eyes.

When Urran spoke, it was in slow, deliberate tones. "Brome, you have been through much in the last season. It would be foolhardy to speak to you as if you were a child." The old mouse sighed and looked out of the window before addressing his son again. "But you are still young and naïve in the ways of the world."

When Brome only continued to stare blankly at his father, Urran continued. "I fear the influence that Martin, or this 'Felldoh' that the Players speak of, may not have been one to which you should have given stock."

"Brome cut his father off with an icy stare. He rose from the wall and addressed his father in frigid tones. "Don't speak of what you do not know, father." The young boy's voice was so cold that Urran's eyes widened in anger before he had the chance to compose himself. "Felldoh was ten times the beast you are, and Martin fought for what he loved." It was only then that Urran felt he realized what an influence the two warriors had been on his son.

"What did you do while we fought and earned our freedom?" Brome's question was a direct challenge to the old mouse. "What did you do while we battled to rid the land of Badrang, and protect what we held dear? You sat here and worried, that's all. You didn't care enough about either Rose or me to come and fight alongside us. Had you been there, maybe Rose would have lived."

Urran's mouth stood agape. The words were heart-wrenching enough, coming from his own son, but the pain was amplified further by the fact that they were cold, hard truth. He had been too afraid to fight alongside them.

"Why didn't you come and fight with us?" Brome's voice cut through the air like a keen blade. Noonvale's chieftain found himself at a loss for words. When no answer was forthcoming, Brome repeated his question. "Why didn't you come and fight with us?"

Urran closed his mouth and averted his gaze from Brome's burning stare. "Because I am not a creature of war," he replied simply.

"Neither am I, yet I stayed and fought."

"You were stranded there, son. You had no way to return."

"I could have left and taken Felldoh with me," Brome countered. "After Felldoh and I had landed, we could have abandoned the Players and sought out Martin and the others, but we didn't." Urran's gaze remained lowered from his son's; for the first time in his life, the chieftain found himself on the defensive.

"Look at you," Brome spat. "Can't even defend yourself against your own son, much less a war."

"It's that Felldoh that did this to you," Urran gritted. "You are different now, Brome: angry and aggressive."

"That's because I can't understand how you could stay here while others were fighting and dying to protect you," Brome retorted. "I still can't believe that you didn't go with Martin and Rose when you found out that both of your children were fighting. I am also a creature of peace, but even I know when to take up the fight."

Urran leapt up from his chair, glaring daggers at Brome. "Silence, Brome! These are the ramblings of a dead squirrel through the mouth of a young mouse!"

The next thing either of them knew, Urran was laid flat on his back by a surprisingly heavy blow from Brome. "You're as bad as Badrang!" Brome roared. "Maybe you should think about what he gave up in the fight before you talk!" Brome turned on his heel and stormed out of the lodge, returning only once more a few days later, gathering his belongings.

* * *

Brome sighed and stood up, shouldering his haversack. He would return one day, but until that time, there was a monster to fight and a war to be won.

**Author's Note**

Alright, this is a lot shorter than I originally intended, but it's something that I've been thinking on. Who knows, I might just take this sad excuse for a fan-fiction and turn it into a full-out story, following Brome's adventures from there until he returned to Noonvale.

Those who have read the book will know that Aubretia (Brome's descendant) did not specify that Brome remained in Noonvale upon returning, only that he was a Healer there. I decided to take advantage of this little loophole Jacques made, as there really aren't that many to manipulate with Felldoh. So, if I can't make my favourite squirrel live on physically, I'll make him a memory. Who better to remember him than his best friend, right?

Please review; I would like to know what you think of this.


	2. Author's Note and Replies

**Author's Note**

By popular demand, I will be making this into a serial fan-fiction. I can't promise frequent updates, as I am in university, but I can say that It will be updated every now and then.

Thanks to my reviewers, and here are my responses:

**Red Squirrel Writer** - Yeah, Sue parodies are getting rather wearing. I thought a serious fan-fiction was in order, and I've always had a certain curiousity for Brome's life back at Noonvale. Glad you liked the story! As for the healer part, you may be surprised with who I have planned for a...mentor.

**Poncho D** - That was one thing that I debated A LOT about, but you'll notice that as the book progressed, Brome's character also changed. By the end of the book, he'd actually picked up a javelin and fought with the Fur and Freedom Fighters, as opposed to being only a healer. You may also remember that he was extremely quiet during the second-to-last battle, and I tried to play on that. He must have been doing a lot of thinking and internal struggling, and he certainly became far more brazen by the end of the book. At the beginning, he definitely wouldn't have been that disrespectful, but he was also fiercely loyal to Felldoh by the end of the book, despite Felldoh's transition. I decided to play on this, as well.

**jarrtail** - Why thankees, matey! Here's hoping that the serialized fiction gets good!

**Paths Crossing -** Yeah, Felldoh is my favourite character. Period. I like Mask and Martin and Brome and a bunch of others, but Felldoh is by far the most tragic hero. One flaw that lead to his undoing, and those are the things that I love. If I may be so bold, if you are to write something about Felldoh, plllllleeeeeeeeaaaasssseeee make it so that it doesn't defy the original happenings in the book. It would be great if you were to write something about his childhood in slavery (he mentions that Badrang beat him when he was little more than an infant).

**lateroseofnoonvale** - Yes, I shall do so. But let it be known that the dibbuns have no effect on me! Even Mattimeo wouldn't have been able to pull one over on me. My little sister tries to do it all the time, and I just laugh and say, "Nice try!"

So, until next time readers, here's what we have. I'll write another chapter and see how it goes, and we'll judge if it's good enough to be serialized based on the reviews I get.


	3. Chapter 2: A Fortuitous Meeting

Dissonance: A Brome Fan-Fiction

**Dissonance: A Brome Fan-Fiction**

_Chapter Two – A Fortuitous Meeting_

Brome trod down the dirt path, fuming from the myriad webs that had entangled themselves in his fur. He stopped on the path and clawed furiously at the fur around his eyes, grunting with frustration as he disentangled the sticky silk. "I bet Martin didn't have this kind of trouble when _he_ came south," the young mouse grumbled.

Brome's friend, Martin the Warrior, had also travelled south. The warrior mouse had been unable to return to Noonvale, which held far too many painful memories for him. When Brome had left to return to Noonvale, those seasons ago, the warrior had still been in his deathly silence, lodging at the mole-widow, Poleekin's, tree.

Even the memory of Martin brought tears to Brome's eyes. The warrior mouse had single-handedly defeated Badrang the Tyrant, retrieving his father's sword from the slain stoat. However, his victory came at a terrible price, and the tears rolled freely down Brome's face as he recalled the cruel sacrifice.

Brome's sister, Rose, had launched herself on Badrang in a desperate attempt to help Martin slay the Tyrant. The stoat, in a desperate bout of shock and rage, flung the mousemaid from him, instantly killing her as she struck the wall of the fortress battleground.

Brome shook the tears from his vision and trudged forward, webs forgotten in his bout of grief. It had been two weeks since the fight with his father and subsequent self-exile from Noonvale. In contrast to what he'd expected, Brome found that the going wasn't extremely rough for him during his travels. He'd managed to find good work in towns he'd crossed, whether for healing, general help, or for his talent as a balladeer. Inhabitants were always willing to pay handsomely for any services he could provide.

On the flip-side, Brome also found himself engaged in much more combat than ever before. In anticipation of this, Brome had fitted himself with a javelin walking stick. Though he'd never hoped to use it, the hope had quickly become naught but fantasy.

Brome had encountered several bands of brigands on the road. Weasels, foxes, ferrets, and other vermin were only too happy to ambush him. He found himself fighting for his money and food every few days with one ragged lot or another. It was unfortunate for them to be on the wrong side of his javelin.

Brome, however, had refused to outwardly attack them. Despite the obvious aggression of the foebeasts, Brome always remained on the defensive; evading or blocking, sometimes even doing a quick trip with his staff, but never going out of his way to harm his opponents.

Though this would initially do little less than aggravate the vermin, it soon caused them to become tired and weary, exhausted from battling Brome, who would be little more than out of breath after his exertions. After a few more pathetic, spasmodic attempts at Brome's life on the part of the vermin, they would become so exhausted that Brome could just walk away.

Brome chuckled, remembering when he left a weasel slumped over a hedge. However, his laughter died quickly and the grip on his javelin tightened as he stared up the road.

Limping down the path was a ragged, evil-looking fox. He was thin and gangly, had a slightly crooked nose and several scars down his side. He was garbed in a tattered wool cloak, which covered his ragged rusty-brown fur. A satchel and a water gourd hung over a knife on his left side, just above his leg.

It was then that Brome noticed the cruel wound inflicted upon the vulpine. Along the fox's left flank was a long gash, and from the blood that was sheeting down the leg, Brome could tell that it was deep. It certainly explained why the fox was limping so weakly; he must have lost loads of blood.

Brome battled with himself on whether or not to help the fox. He'd never been treated well by their kind, and more often than not was forced to defend himself from them. Why should he help one whose kind had always persecuted him?

The matter was solved when the fox fell in a heap. Brome threw his javelin aside and rushed to the fallen vulpine. He knelt beside the frail figure and withdrew some bandages, dock leaves, and his own water gourd. Without a word, Brome took the leaves and ground them up in a bowl from his satchel, using the blunt end of a nearby stone. He took some dirt from the road and set it in the bowl, pouring some water to the mixture to create a mud-and-dock-leaf poultice.

Brome silently turned the fox over so he could get at the wound more easily. He washed it out with water from his gourd and began applying the poultice to the jagged gash. Once the poultice was fully applied, the young mouse set about wrapping the flank tightly with his bandages. Once Brome was satisfied that the bandages were tight enough, he knotted them and began to soak the fox's brow with water and rubbing some on his lips, in order to revive him.

The fox soon came awake. Seeing a strange mouse leaning over him, he immediately went on the defensive. The fox rolled away and leapt up, drawing his dagger from its sheath in one fluid movement. He regretted the exertion instantly, as the wound in his leg sent fresh waves of pain through his body. Nonetheless, he stayed upright and poised to strike.

"Who are you?" the fox growled, his voice surprisingly young as his eyes bore into Brome.

"Relax." Brome got up from where the fox had bowled him over on the ground. "My name's Brome, a healer from up north. You had a bad cut on your leg, so I did some work on it.

The fox stole a glance at his leg. Indeed, his flank had been bandaged neatly, and the fox could feel the tell-tale stickiness of the poultice over his wound.

Even so, he did not let his guard down. "Why did you do this for me?" he asked, though his voice was not as harsh as before.

Brome shrugged. "I don't know, really. I saw you limping down the path and collapse, so I guess my healer's instincts took over." Brome cocked his head to the side, giving the fox a quizzical look. "Who are you, a travelling bandit?"

The fox gave a ragged laugh and lowered his dagger. "No, but I can see how you could get that impression. My name's Mantra, a healer like you. I was actually on my way to get more supplies and herbs, but then I got ambushed by a gang of ferrets. I managed to drive them away, but not without this little gift of theirs." Mantra gave the bandages a tap, eliciting a wry chuckle from Brome.

"I've had my share of scraps with that lot, too," the mouse said with a wry grin. His eyes narrowed slightly, and he became a little more cautious as he continued. "But what about you? You look like you'd scare baby squirrels from a field of posies."

Mantra laughed loudly. "Don't be fooled," he said, still chuckling. "I'm not like my vermin brethren. They're all sly, foul beasts. I'm an honest healer." He chuckled a little more before he looked down the road. "Tell you what, mate: why don't we head into town, get my supplies, and then have a rest at my den? You look like you've been living off of corsair rations for ten seasons. Hard tack lunches got to you yet?"

As if on cue, Brome's stomach gave a loud grumble, and the young mouse grinned sheepishly. "Heh, my stomach's taken a liking to you." Both of them chuckled and began conversing in earnest as the walked down the path.

* * *

The trip was a happy blur to Brome. Mantra was fairly young, so he was no stranger in going about his business while still having fun. When the two weren't exchanging jokes and jibes, they were talking of other comedic subjects.

The townsfolk were also friendly, and seemed to know Mantra well. Everywhere they went, somebeast always came up to them and spoke heartily with Mantra. Soon enough, Brome felt foolish for his earlier suspicions against the fox. It was crystal clear that you couldn't judge this fox by his pelt. As Brome spent time with Mantra, even the fox's devilish appearance seemed to diminish, becoming gradually more jovial. It wasn't long before Brome found himself admiring the fox. How hard it must have been to gain the trust of the townsfolk!

Eventually, the two departed town and made for Mantra's den. Mantra reminded Brome very much of Felldoh when the squirrel hadn't been taken by his berserk drive for revenge against Badrang. Mantra was fun-loving and young, yet just as set in his views as Felldoh had been. Brome enjoyed the earnest discussions he had with the fox on the road, their conversations often turning to topics as war and violence, or the intricacies of healing. Brome learned much from Mantra that day.

Once they'd arrived at the fox's den, Mantra immediately set to storing his healing supplies and taking out foods to prepare a meal for his guest and himself. Brome refused to sit idle and invade on the fox's hospitality. The mouse busied himself with storing herbs and special supplies in their respective containers. Brome was amazed at Mantra's efficiency; he'd labelled all of his jars with contents and storing instructions! When Brome asked about this, Mantra shrugged and said, "Just in case I forget something."

While Mantra set about with the food, Brome read the storing instructions intently, amazed at the detail with which the fox labelled his jars. It was only once he'd finished storing the supplies that Brome cast an eye about Mantra's home.

The den was nothing special in the way of homes. There was a straw-stuffed padded bench for the fox to lounge on after a long days work in-town. Otherwose, it was only a dining room and kitchen, with two doorways that led to bedrooms and a door opposite that lead outside. The kitchen and adjacent store-room were littered with shelves, drawers, and cupboards for storage. Brome stole a glance into a cupboard that Mantra had opened, and discovered that the fox had a passion amounting to myriad cooking herbs and spices. The young mouse made a mental note of that, just in case he ever passed by the den again.

After much preparation, the two healers sat down to a delicious-looking mean of apple-and-cheese salad, baked fish, and October ale. Brome enjoyed himself immensely, having not sat down to a proper meal in a long time. However, he couldn't help giving out an appraising remark of Mantra.

"You know, Mantra," Brome said as he swallowed a bite of salad, "I've met a lot of foxes before, but not a one like you. Most I've met are rather nasty; cruel and greedy beasts, they were, but you're not like that."

Mantra shrugged. "I've never had reason to be. Every time I've tried to be sly or cunning, it's come back to bite me in the rump. More than once, that saying was quite literal." Brome laughed.

"Still," Brome replied, stifling his giggles, "I can't help but wonder _why_ you aren't with your own kind, and living out on your own instead."

"I could ask you the same thing," Mantra said, sipping from his mug. "You don't usually see mice wandering alone."

Brome shrugged half-committedly. "I got into a row with my father, the Chief of our town. After that, I decided it was time to ho abroad, learn how to be a better healer.

Mantra nodded reflectively. "Aye, my story's like that too, mate. My clan hated me, thought I was a soft, weak fool. Thought I was afraid to do what had to be done, they did." He shook his head and his grip was like a vice on his ale. "They ran me out of town when I was still a dibbun."

Brome's gut clenched, and he had to fight the urge to slam his fist on the table. He hadn't meant to bring up such painful memories.

Mantra sensed this and shook his head consolingly. "No fault of yours, mate; you didn't know. But enough about history. What's in the past stays there." The fox took another sip of his ale. "Now, you said you wanted to be a better healer?"

"That's right." Brome brightened up a bit, though he was still inwardly berating himself for his foolhardiness.

"I might be able to help with that. How would you like to be my apprentice?"

Brome was completely taken aback at the question, so much that he was stunned into silence, mouth hanging agape.

"Think about it," Mantra tempted. "If not me, you'll have to be an apprentice to someone else before long." He tapped the bandage on his flank as-a-matter-of-factly. "And not many can wrap something up that good. I haven't felt more than a tickle from this thing in hours."

"I couldn't impose any further," Brome spluttered, regaining his voice.

Mantra waved it off. "You save my life, mate. You're not imposing, believe me." He sighed. "I'm not going to force you to do this, but I think you should; if not me, you'll probably have to go south to that Loamhedge Abbey place. As far as I know, it's the only place with decent healers within a hundred leagues of here."

Brome closed his eyes reflectively. From what he'd heard from townsfolk, Loamhedge Abbey was legendary for its healers. But it was several seasons march to the south, and Brome wasn't sure if he were prepared for such a trip.

A few more moments of thought, and Brome nodded decisively. "Alright, Mantra, I'll be your apprentice. How much?"

Mantra cocked his ear, completely nonplussed. "How much what?"

"Gold. I've got to pay somehow."

Mantra pushed Brome's paw out of his money pouch. "No gold, keep your money mate. You saved my life, that's payment enough."

Brome chuckled. "Well, I'll pay you for the meal, then."

"Well, start picking up plates then, matey!" Mantra laughed out loud as he started gathering plates. "Help me scrub 'em in the river, and we'll call it even."

Both healers laughed as they cleared the table. Brome shook his head in cheery wonder. He was well on his way to becoming a great healer!


	4. Chapter 3: A New Beginning

Author's Note

DISCLAIMER: Brome, Martin the Warrior, Felldoh, Rose, and any other canonical character mentioned in this text are the sole property of his Mary-Sueness, Brian Jacques. Mantra, Phoebus, Mortimer, Fruga, and Scrat are mine however; touch them without my permission and I pen-rape you from here to Mars and back. Mantra doesn't believe I can do it, but I have my ways. Mantra is co-authored by my father, a direct result of his childhood D&D days.

Hey guys! I'm REALLY sorry that I haven't updated this in like, two years, but I sort of lost the mood. Got into my Biker Mice stuff, then I started writing Vanguard and other stuff and…I sort of forgot about this one. That's not to say I wasn't prepared; I tend to hand-write out multiple chapters ahead of time, so before I lost my spark I'd gotten this and a few other chapters fully written. All that was needed was the transferring to Word 2007 and some tweaking, and then it was done.

Some little shout-outs here, before I get into the story. First one goes to Keleiah. I have been reading your stories buddy, I really have D: I just haven't reviewed them, which is a crime on its own. So to everybody else reading this blurb, go read Kel(ly)'s stuff, and THEN read this one. SERIOUSLY! Mine can wait; gogogogogo!

Next shout out is to warrior4. In my opinion he is the single best epic-writer in the Redwall section. When I say epic, I don't mean epic as in 'awesome', I mean epic as in length AND quality. Seriously, both _A Mask and a Song_ and _Winter's Flowers_ are amazing, much like his other stuff. This guy could be put on par with some really good contemporary RL authors.

My last shout-out is to Scyphi, and this author's epic _Warrior of Redwall_ tale. Very well-constructed, and lengthy enough to last you a long time. The characters are original, and the storyline pays homage to those of Jacques while still having a very innovative style. The only issue that I ever had – and it is so small you couldn't see it with a x1000000000 microscope compared to the whole thing – is that the chapter count is way up there when some of them could have been merged together.

So on to the story! I have a challenge for you lot: find the _Pirates of the Caribbean_ reference, and I'll let you in on a plot bunny for the next chapter ;D

* * *

_Chapter Three: A New Beginning_

"So," Brome ventured from over his wooden mug of apple-strawberry tea, "Exactly what is it you plan to teach me first?"

Mantra scratched the fur on his chin and set his own tea down. "You know, that's a good question. Why don't we start by finding out what it is you already know?"

Brome scowled thoughtfully. He took a sip from his mug; the sweet strawberries mixed nicely with the tartness of the apples. "Well…I don't really know all that much," Brome muttered. "Of course I know basic things like how to make a poultice and wrap up a wound –"

Mantra fingered his freshly-bandaged leg. "Aye, we've seen that."

" – But otherwise, not much. I can mix some herbs to make broths that help recovery, and I can make a pretty strong sleeping draught…" Brome trailed off, digging at his brain for other experiences. "I know how to stitch, but I'm not too good at that yet…"

"That's enough," Mantra waived before Brome went into further detail. "We can work with that, and really that's more than I'd hoped for. I'll have to have a wiff of that sleeping draught, though, since those can be good anaesthetics."

Brome blinked. "What?"

Mantra raised an eyebrow. "Anaesthetic. It's a word for anything that can put someone under so that they can't feel the pain. I thought you'd've known that, seeing as you can make a sleeping draught."

Brome shook his head. "No, I just used it after I worked on them. Helps them get to sleep so that their body can work on the healing. Never really thought about using it as an…what did you call it? Synaesthetic?"

Mantra laughed. "No no, an _an_aesthetic. A synaesthetic is something that…well, have you ever felt really wonky after burning certain types of wood, or eating a strange mushroom?" Brome nodded. "Well, all those colours and lights and shapes you see? That's like what synaesthesia is, and there's certain concoctions called synaesthetics that can make you see and hear all that. If I remember right, it really means 'hyper-sensitive'."

Brome shuddered. "So…is there any use for that?"

Mantra shrugged. "Some people think so. There's healers in villages who'll use those mixtures on themselves, since they think they can be in better tune with what they're doing, but they're usually superstitious vermin."

Brome rolled his eyes and looked knowingly at Mantra. "Oh come on, fox, you have to have _some_ superstitions. Everybody does.

Mantra shrugged again. "I suppose I have my fair share, but I don't usually live my life by them. But we're getting way off-topic here; we were discussing teaching you how to be a better healer." Mantra leaned his cheek on his paw and said, "I think I know a good place to begin, but we'll have to do it quickly this morning. I've got a shift in town this eve, and it'll take a good twenty minutes just to get there, then another twenty back. Three hours, maybe more of training…" Mantra trailed off, muttering to himself. "Then we'll head back for lunch, and we'll leave a couple hours after to get to the village…that's thirty travelling to and another thirty back at night…some rations for tonight and…"

Brome blinked, nonplussed at how Mantra had just distanced himself and began muttering. After a few more moments, Brome snapped his claws and said, "Oi, Mantra! You okay there?"

Mantra started and his eyes shot to Brome. "Oh! Oh, sorry about that Brome. It's one of my quirks; I try to plan everything out so I'm not late or over-early. That way I give myself enough time to do things."

"It's no trouble," Brome said, "You just had me worried there. Besides, if you spend all day planning, you won't get any of it done."

Mantra laughed and got up from the table. "True enough, mate. Come on, toss your mug in the bag and we'll wash them all when we get to the creek. We still have to wash your bowl from last night."

Brome snorted indignantly. "So I get hungry in the night. 'Snot like I make a habit of raiding the cupboards."

"So what is it you wanted to teach me today?" Brome asked, scrubbing his late-night bowl with sand.

* * *

Mantra hung his wineskin from the branch of a tree and drew his knife. Wincing, he slid the edge of the keen blade against the underside of his forearm, making a semi-deep cut that immediately began to bleed. Brome let out a wordless protest, but Mantra cut him off. "Oh, be quiet. This is going to be part of your training. Now watch what I do; the first part of being a decent healer involves knowing how to take care of yourself." He sat down and elevated his arm, turning the gash itself up. As he reached into his bag with his other paw, he said, "When you're dealing with major cuts, the first thing you do is to elevate the wound – keeps too much blood from flowing to the wound, you see. Then –" Mantra pulled a long white strip from his pack. "– You have to wrap it up nice and tight." Keeping his gash tilted upwards, Mantra set one end of the cloth between his elbow and flank, holding it in place while he wrapped the strip around the wound. "It's important – agh, that smarts! – Mmf, it's important that you wrap the wound tightly, to keep as much blood in the body as you can." When he finished wrapping his arm, he tucked the end into the wrappings and held his arm up for Brome to see. "See?"

"I think you forgot something," Brome said. He motioned to the wineskin. "You're supposed to pour wine over the wound first."

Mantra nodded. "True, the wine – what's the word again – 'disinfects' the wound. I didn't cut myself deep enough to really need the wine, but you're absolutely right."

"Still don't understand exactly why the blood is so important," Brome mused, scowling. "I understand that you need it, but what's it for?"

Mantra shrugged, giving his wounded arm a quick shake in a vain attempt to shoo away the discomfort. "Not exactly sure, mate. I know that it helps with the healing, but I'll be damned if I know how or why."

"So…" Brome said slowly, focusing his gaze on Mantra's bound arm. "If that's today's lesson…how exactly was that supposed to be hours? We just did it in a few minutes."

Mantra grinned, and Brome immediately felt that he'd asked the wrong question. He gulped as Mantra let out a deceptively wicked cackle. "Oh Brome, my dear pupil, dear sweet naïve Brome…we're going to do it again. And again. And again. And –"

"Again?" Brome muttered. Mantra nodded, and Brome groaned. Monotony.

"Don't worry though, mate," Mantra said, reaching into his pack for something else. "It's not all gonna be in practice. I've got us some bark and charcoal here; I want you to write out the steps I just outlined, and if you feel up to it you can add in a few of your own too. I'll tell you if they're good, bad, or redundant."

"I get the idea you're going to get a sadistic pleasure from this, but the joke's on you Mantra: by the end of the day, you're going to be a masochist, 'cos my writing is terrible."

Mantra smirked. "Well, you're already halfway to being a healer, then."

* * *

The pack of dishes, few as they were, felt heavy on Brome's back as he and Mantra plodded back to the den. Brome was not physically tired, but the day's mental activity had taken a toll on him and he could feel a migraine growing above his right eye. Then again, that was probably because Mantra insisted on drilling him on the way back.

"Again, why do we elevate the wound?"

Brome huffed, but kept his irritation in check. "Because we don't want too much blood to flow out of the wound. _And_ –" he added quickly, before Mantra could pipe up again, "so that the amount of blood we allow to heal the wound is controlled. So Mantra, have you ever thought that maybe, just maybe, you have an obsession?"

Mantra laughed mirthlessly. "Not an obsession mate. It's nothing to be taken lightly. Imagine for a minute that you've been stranded in the woods or tossed in a ditch within an inch of your life. Simple, everyday lessons like the ones I taught you today could make the difference between life and death."

Instead of pursuing the subject, Brome looked up at the sky. "Hmm…sun's not quite near the zenith yet. Why are we heading back so early?"

"Only the early mornings will be spent training," Mantra replied. "The afternoons will be spent doing housework and getting ready for our shift."

Brome didn't like the way Mantra said 'shift'. He looked up at his friend and said, "Er…wot d'you mean, 'shift'? What exactly is it we'll be doing?"

"Patrol." Mantra said it as though it were obvious. "We'll be doing rounds with the town guard; earns us our keep. We help protect the village and in return the village lets us have some of their grub."

Brome scowled. That sounded a lot like exploitation. "You mean that we just take it? Without asking?"

Mantra shook his head. "We're not thieves Brome. It's more of an unwritten law we've got going on here. There's loads of us guards, and considering that most of us tend to do a lot of physical labour, they give us food that we don't otherwise have time to make."

"Still sounds like we're exploiting the village," Brome muttered.

"It does," Mantra admitted, "but it's a bit more intricate than that, and we don't go and steal from them. What happens is that every month we're given a set of ration cards by the town council – I'll show you what they look like when we get back – and we use those during the harvest markets to stock ourselves up. We've also got gold that we earn on the side, but that's a much more recent issue. For some reason, everybody likes those little yellow rocks, and people are willing to give you a proportionate amount of supplies. I don't exactly understand it; there's this whole weighing thing that goes on." Mantra waved as if shooing off a fly. "But it's an evolving system. Ration cards work better, though."

Brome thought it over. Admittedly, it wasn't the exploitation he had thought it to be, but as it were it did nothing to ease his discomfort at the idea. Still, he couldn't find anything outright wrong about it, so he just shrugged it off and thought it would take some getting used to.

Deciding to change tack, Brome asked, "So why is it you live outside the city, Mantra? You seem well-known enough by the villagers, and liked enough, so why not live with them?"

"Truth be told?" Mantra mused, scratching his chin. "Hmm…I suppose I'm just a solitary soul. Besides, it doesn't seem right for a 'vermin' to be living among woodlanders. It's just off; you'll meet vermin on the patrols who, like me, work just as well with the woodlanders, but also like me they tend to keep to themselves when they don't need to socialize. Lots of them are agreeable enough; I've met squirrels who were more abrasive than the ferrets."

Brome blinked, trying to take this in. "Well…I suppose I can see that, but wouldn't the woodlanders accept you? You've already shown them your goodwill, right? So why wouldn't they want you to live among them?"

A mirthless smile appeared on Mantra's face. "I get along with the villagers, but not all of them like me. There's only two reasons that they would ever do business with my kind: either they genuinely like me – and a lot of 'em do – or else they feel they have to. I have the fortune to know both kinds, since some are more than happy to help while others feel it's their duty. Then, of course, there's those that just won't do business with vermin, and I stopped bothering going to them. Some of 'em won't even take the ration cards anymore, but we don't force 'em. There's plenty that'll give us what we need and not be stupid about it."

Brome looked up at the leaves in the tree above Mantra's den; they had arrived while conversing. The young mouse opened his mouth to ask another question, but Mantra cut him off by opening the door beneath the roots and said, "Come on, let's get ourselves inside." Mantra looked up at the clouds. "It's getting pretty cloudy out; probably where that chill is coming from."

"I'll get the kettle going then," Brome volunteered, ducking under the roots and making for the kitchen. He undid his travelling cloak and placed it on a small bar beyond the den. "What exactly are you thinking of making?"

"Hotroot stew," Mantra called from behind him. The door closed and the lock twisted with a tick. Mantra placed his own cloak and scarf beside Brome's discarded layer. "The way I see it, it's coming up on the end of autumn and we could do with a good hot stew. If we can swing it, I'll make more for later tonight, and we can heat it up on a fire while we go for our rounds."

Brome didn't answer immediately. He crouched and put wood in the little rock stove, set some straw in with it and set it alight with flint and tinder. "Well, I'll get the tea started while you prepare the vegetables then, shall I?" Brome asked.

"Splendid idea," Mantra said grandly, adopting a high-brow mannerism. "And while we're at it we can spread some jolly scones with strawberry preserve, eh wot?"

"Scones withum yur 'otroot?" Brome replied. He always enjoyed doing the many accents of his woodland kin. "Bo hurr, you'm be roight mad! You'm s'posed to spread 'em wi' butter first, then 'oney!"

"Alright, enough enough," Mantra chided, drawing a knife from one of his satchels. "We'd best get started, or we'll never eat. If you're wanting to try any new teas –" Mantra pointed up at a cupboard with his knife. "– You'll find some exotic ones up there. There's some different blends of fruits and herbs that I thought tasted well, and I've marked some that I got from a Loamhedge trader some seasons back."

"Loamhedge?" Brome opened the cupboard and looked at the array of concoctions. "I thought you said that was several seasons' march south."

Mantra stuffed his head in the cupboard alongside Brome, seeking out some hotroots to chop. "Aye, but they send traders up once every four seasons or so. We haven't had one in a while, though, so I've been drinking these sparingly. Aha!" Mantra drew his head back out and grabbed at the hotroot he found. He proceeded to pull a cutting board out and chopped up the root into bite-sized chunks.

Brome extracted himself from the cupboard as well, bringing with him a little jar of tea labelled Dragon's Heartstring. "Erm…what's this? 'Dragon's Heartstring'?"

"Oh that." Mantra did not look up as he replied, but kept chopping. "It's one of the mixtures the Loamhedge trader brought me. Something to do with the seeds of a fruit – pomegranate, I think – and some other leaves…It's not a black tea, it's more white-ish. Tastes good, though, but it can be a bit strong. Shocked me, at first."

Brome looked at the jar and shrugged. Trying something new was always interesting. Brome placed the kettle over the single hole on the stove, where all the heat was coming out. It wasn't long before Brome heard the tell-tale roll of boiling water. He folded a nearby cloth multiple times and used it to lift up the scalding kettle.

Something had been bothering Brome. Mantra seemed resigned to the fact that he was a guard. Indeed, he seemed almost eager to get on with his rounds. It struck Brome as odd that a beast who was fundamentally a healer felt a desire to be in an organization that held such obvious violent roots. Mantra seemed to have a different spring in his step; before, he had an authoritative, friendly swagger that showed an eagerness to teach. Brome looked at Mantra; now, however, there was a calculated swiftness to his movements.

Brome was so lost in thought that he ended up dropping the kettle hard onto the table, and boiling water spilled up and over the edges. Brome gasped and pulled his paws away; luckily the water hadn't spilled on him.

Mantra looked up at Brome. "Careful with that. I haven't got many herbs which help with burning, and even fewer that mend broken tables."

"Oh, ha-ha, what wit you have," Brome said sarcastically. He pushed the kettle further in towards the center of the table; he didn't want it to spill. As he dropped a few scoops of the tea mixture into the kettle, he said to Mantra, "D'you mind telling me something Mantra? Exactly why is it that you're so comfortable being a guard? You're a healer, so where do you get off being a fighter?"

Mantra paused for a moment in his chopping, but then swept the root into a cauldron and began chopping up some carrots. "Honestly, I've been a fighter longer than I've been a healer. Had to learn to defend myself on the road, and I picked up dagger fighting pretty quickly. Never thought to use that javelin you've got there, though; that's a different way of fighting."

"Well, I don't know what good I'll be then," Brome muttered, stirring the tea with the spoon. "I've always been a healer, and I've never done any _real_ fighting. I can't kill a beast, and unless I have to fight I'll just run."

"Well you're a smart lad then," Mantra said, shoving the carrots into the cauldron and picking up another vegetable. "You shouldn't fight if you don't have to. There isn't too much action in the guard though, so don't worry about it." He began to chop up some celery sticks and looked intently at Brome. "Hmm…you know, you look like you could be a good runner. If we run into too much trouble, then we'll get you to run back to the guardhouse and alert the others. We've never really come across too much bad business around here, just wandering bandits and such. The highway-beasts tend to avoid us, but a few bandits think they can pull off raids. A dart or two in their asses tends to solve that problem," he added sourly.

"Tea's done," Brome called over. "Where d'you keep your tea cups?"

"Behind me; bottom shelf in the cupboard."

As Brome retrieved two mugs, he asked Mantra, "That still doesn't entirely answer my question. How are you going to fight them? Do they give us weapons at the guardhouse?"

"Hmm…Hold on, you keep chopping these, and I'll show you," Mantra said, dropping the knife. Brome, utterly perplexed, set the cups aside and took up the knife; he proceeded to chop the potatoes that Mantra had been working on. For his part, Mantra opened the port to his room and disappeared inside. Brome heard the latch of something click, and Mantra called out, "You know, you're a curious mite. Where'd you get that from, your dad?"

"No, that's my stubbornness," Brome responded, grinning. "My mum gives me my curiosity."

Over the shifting of effects, Brome heard Mantra call out, "So while I'm rummaging for my stuff, tell me: d'you have any friends or family back where you come from. Other than your father and mother, I mean."

Brome stopped chopping for a moment. What exactly should he tell him? The Rambling Rosehip Players were probably well-known in areas like this, and he didn't doubt that they'd be unfamiliar with Boldred, the short-eared owl being a mapmaker and all.

Mantra stuck his head out and looked at Brome, who had become eerily quiet. "Brome? Mate, you okay?"

Brome blinked and shook his head slightly. "What? Oh sorry about that, Mantra. Just thinking about back home."

The mouse returned to his chopping and said, "I suppose not many. I had my mother and father, and a very good friend in Martin the Warrior. And then there was –"

Brome never got to finish, because Mantra dropped everything he held in his room and came out. He placed both paws on the table and looked right at Brome, a look of surprise on his face. "Martin? You don't mean that big mouse with a rusty sword, do you?"

"Erm…" Brome was taken aback by the suddenness of Mantra's outburst. "Yes, actually, but I don't remember his sword being too rusty."

Mantra laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, he left quite an impression on us. Slew a great band of stoat bandits before he left, but he was like a ghost. Didn't say a word, didn't even ask for a place to stay in the village. He just set up camp outside the village, got into a row with some stoats, and cut 'em all down when they tried to take his sword from him. Never said a word; the only sounds I ever heard out of 'im were his snoring and his battle cry, 'Martin!'"

Brome was, to say the least, surprised. "Boldred told us that he'd gone south, but Noonvale is so far from where he was staying I never would've thought he'd run into you lot." But from what Mantra was saying, Martin was still in his silent depression. The only words that he'd said came from Rowanoak, and it was to tell his friends that he would be leaving for the south and that he'd never tell anybeast of Noonvale or the north where he came from. "He was…a dedicated warrior," Brome said carefully.

"I'll say," Mantra scoffed. "He rubbed a few of us the wrong way, too. You'd think he'd seen a ghost when he saw the leader of that bandit gang; never seen anybeast kill a creature in such a horrible way."

Brome bit his lip. He recalled his father saying that there were three stages to getting out of depression. The first was acknowledging the depression, and the second was anger. If Mantra could be believed, then Martin was at least in the second stage. Brome wondered if Martin had yet come to the acceptance part. Instead, however, he asked Mantra, "How long ago was it that he passed through here?"

Mantra stroked his chin-fur as he returned to rummaging through his effects, disappearing into his room. His voice came out soft and thoughtful. "Can't say exactly, but I think it was a season or so ago. Most of us were glad to see the back of him. Ah! Hold that thought!" Something slammed shut, and Mantra came out with a bundle in his arms.

Brome had a hard time identifying exactly what was in the bundle until Mantra laid it out upon the table. There was leather padding, a belt of throwing knives, a wickedly sharp scimitar, and two sheathed daggers. Mantra drew one of the daggers out of its sheath, and Brome recognized it as the one he'd seen when he ran into Mantra those days ago.

Running his thumb along the edge of the dagger, Mantra smirked. "What? Did you think that my daggers were the only things I had? I prefer to travel light when I go to the village, but I'll be damned if I'm not going to come fully armed for guard duty. No bandit is going to catch _me_ unawares."

Brome swept the last of the potatoes into the cauldron and poured water into it. When he was finished, he set it on the stove and walked over to the table. The effects strewn about it were clearly those of a professional mercenary. Brome fingered the belt of throwing knives, horrified that he was marvelling at the craftsmanship. "You're a real professional," he said softly.

Mantra shrugged. "Not really. I never learned how to throw these little knives right. Look, I've got great aim," he took a dagger and flung it, striking a stone in the dirt wall. "But I'll be damned if I can't get it to go point-in. Suppose it's a good thing; you shouldn't kill somebeast if you don't have to. I think I've only ever gotten these into somebody twice, and both times they were running away and I sunk 'em into the spot behind their knees." Mantra stopped, and noticed a very odd look on Brome's face. The mouse was silent, his face screwed up in thought.

Brome noticed the concerned look on Mantra's face, and said, "Oh, don't worry about me Mantra. I'm just thinking about some old friends."

_Felldoh and Martin especially_, Brome thought. Mantra was peaceful; he didn't come off like Martin or Felldoh. Brome had always identified warriors by their rage and bravery in battle. Admittedly, he hadn't seen Mantra in a proper fight yet, but Martin and Felldoh always had an echo of that anger outside of battle. When they thought nobody was looking, there was a hard glint in their eyes, and they were often lost in thought, planning the next attack on Marshank. The only time Brome had ever seen Martin happy was when Rose was with him, and Felldoh had only ever been happy when Brome himself was around; otherwise, the two would lapse into silence or discuss Marshank with the Fur and Freedom Fighters.

Brome felt that Mantra had none of these qualities. He had seen no anger, no inset fury in Mantra that was characteristic of the warriors he'd come across. So if the rage didn't make one a warrior, what did?

Mantra, misinterpreting Brome's silence for consternation about the weaponry, said, "I know they're weapons, but we don't usually have to use them. We fight if and only if we're attacked first."

"Huh?" Brome asked, bewildered. "Oh…oh, it's not about the weapons Mantra. I've seen them before, they're nothing entirely new."

Mantra was completely nonplussed. "Er…then what is it?"

Brome looked outside a little window. "I'll tell you on the way to town. For now, let's worry about eating."

* * *

Some hours later, Mantra straddled the back of a chair as Brome laced on some leather padding they had taken from the guardhouse reserves. "So the Martin that came down and wreaked havoc on the stoats…he was the one that defeated Badrang?"

Brome looked up at Mantra. The fox had been silent for most of Brome's tale, and now he was implying that Badrang was no stranger. "Yes, he was. Did you know Badrang?"

Mantra shook his head. "No, only heard of him. When he sacked the northern villages for slaves, a lot of them fled south. Some of them are still here, some of them have died off, and others went further south, to Mossflower Wood. They wouldn't talk much about him, so I guess he was pretty nasty."

Brome laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, nasty is an understatement. One of my friends, Keyla, said that he strung up one of his officers and stuck him full of arrows, just because he _thought_ the fox was a spy for his enemy. Martin also told me that Badrang had him strung out in the storm, and left him there for the gulls to feed on. If it weren't for my –" Brome stopped here. No, not Rose. He would not speak of her. "Umm…my other enemy, Clogg, attacking Marshank, Martin would have been eaten alive by the gulls and gannets."

"Ooh," Mantra cringed, "He _does_ sound nasty. But what about this other one, the one you said tried to take on Badrang and his horde all by his onesy. Felldoh, did you say his name was?"

The breath caught in Brome's chest, but he smiled. "Felldoh was probably the greatest warrior of our lot. He fought hard, and he was dedicated to taking down Badrang. But eventually, that's what killed him." Brome's voice grew soft as he remembered his friend's tragedy. "Badrang had him enslaved since he was a dibbun, you see, so Felldoh wanted revenge. It brought out some of the best in him, but it also brought out the worst. He was consumed by his desire for revenge, and died trying to take on the whole of Fort Marshank."

"What about outside of battle," Mantra asked quietly.

A throaty laugh escaped Brome's mouth. "He was completely different. He would laugh, and jest. He was never very outgoing, and always very sombre with others, but around those who he felt closest with he would lower his walls. He had fun; I remember we were sitting among the rocks of the sea one night, and we started counting out the stars. Eventually, I gave up, but he said, 'Brome, mate, there are four ways of playing a game. There's trying to win, then there's trying to keep the other beasts from winning, then there's losing. But you know what the worst way to play is?' he asked. Then he said, 'The worst way to play a game is to give up, because when you give up you always lose.'

"Felldoh even carved me this," Brome said. He reached into his tunic and drew out a wooden carving that was laced around his neck. It was a small wooden shield with an insignia depicting a lance shattering a chain: the battle standard of the Fur and Freedom Fighters. "When he wasn't taken in battle, he was one of the kindest beasts I knew. He always tried to lend a paw, and was supportive. I was a bit nervous the first time I sang in front of him. Hah, old Ballaw played a little reed and I began to sing a riddle song. But Felldoh clapped along with everyone else; he enjoyed my music."

Mantra eyed Brome with a smile. "You were best mates."

Brome shook his head. "No, we weren't mates. We loved each other; we were brothers. During the time before the final attack on Marshank, he was the only person I could really be around. He was the only one that I thought really didn't judge me." The memories elicited a chuckle from Brome, and he looked fondly at his shield. "There was a day when he and I were sitting out at the sea and we noticed some of Badrang's scouts trailing us, so we each took a javelin between us and led them away from our camp, into the swamp. That was the day when I _really_ saw what war was like, and when I found out that I didn't have the same constitution for war that he had. The way he killed…it was horrifying and detached, but he was so focused that it was almost like he was painting a work of art with javelins and blood.

"On the way back to camp, I felt like a weakling and a coward. But he told me – the very same squirrel who slew nearly half a score of foebeasts in less than a half hour – that he didn't look down on me for not being able to kill. He even admired me, said that that innocence was something that Badrang took from him, and something he'd give anything to get back. I didn't have to worry about being a fighter or being a healer; I could be whatever I felt comfortable with." Brome sniffled, not entirely surprised that he was watering at the eyes. "If there was anything I could do to bring him back, I would. I would give anything to have him with me, back home, sipping my momma's hot mint tea and eating a great bowl of plum 'n' apple pudden."

Mantra looked at the lowering sun wistfully. "You sound like you had a lot of good times with him."

Brome shook his head. "We weren't together for two seasons before he died. Sometimes, I wish I could be like him."

"Don't." Mantra's voice became so hard and his glare so fierce that Brome felt he'd been punched. The young mouse opened his mouth to retort, but Mantra forestalled him by raising a paw. "I mean you nor your brother's memory any disrespect Brome, but from what I can gather he was the quintessential brawler."

"The what?" Brome hissed.

"He was a warrior," Mantra explained. "But he was a warrior who let his emotions rule his mind, a warrior that lost everything in the pursuit of revenge over justice. You are pure of heart Brome; honour your brother, love him, treasure and admire him, but _never_ wish to be something other than yourself. You will never be happy, never find peace, and you will _never_ be the same." Brome spluttered in outrage, but Mantra again cut him off. "Seasons be damned, Brome, I'm not trying to offend you!"

"A funny way you have of showing it." Brome was seething in fury. Who was this beast – this _vermin_ – to challenge the memory of Felldoh?

"Listen," Mantra said, laying his knife belt on the floor. "For what it's worth, I understand that he was someone you were _very_ close to." Mantra let the implication ring for a moment before continuing. "But do you think Felldoh would want you to be like him? Do you think he would want you to learn to put vengeance before justice, to throw away those you love to satisfy a personal vendetta? I've never been one for the afterlife, but I would bet my brush that he's up in Dark Forest watching you now. He died, Brome; do you think he wants you to join him in the afterlife, when you have barely begun to live?" Mantra cast another look at the sun and got up, grabbing his belt of throwing knives off the ground and slinging it across his shoulder. "Come on," he said as he tightened the strap, "We should be meeting up with Phoebus."

His fury not yet abated, Brome gritted, "And who might Phoebus be?"

Brome did not see the smile that flickered across Mantra's face. "You'll see."

* * *

Mantra tapped his footpaw impatiently, and looked out across the village from the roof he was on. Brome shouted up to him, "D'you see your friend yet?"

"No," Mantra called back irritably. "When he gets here, I'm going to tan his hide. He'd better not be skipping out on patrol tonight; he did that during the winter, and I'm still on the receiving end of shots from our superiors because of it."

"What was he out doing?"

"Oh, the usual thing with proud young males; flirting, feeling, and –"

"Philandering Mantra?" a deep voice called from the roof of the house behind Mantra. "Are you still on about that?"

Mantra turned his head slowly and cocked a grin, though Brome had nearly jumped out of his fur. The young mouse retrieved the javelin he dropped and climbed to the roof to see who it was that Mantra was talking to.

Standing there was a lithe otter, easily taller than Mantra. He wore similar leather padding, but sported a rapier lashed across his back. He too had a belt of throwing implements, but instead of knives he had small axes, and there was a shortbow draped over his chest.

But most intimidating about the otter was the loaded sling that he whirled absent-mindedly at his side. He seemed to pay no heed to its movements, but it always swung in a perfect circle.

Swallowing any intimidation he felt, Brome said, "I presume that you're Phoebus?"

The otter chuckled richly. "Yes, I'm Phoebus. And please don't start calling me 'sir' and all that nonsense. I'm no hare."

Brome eyed the belt of throwing axes warily. "Apparently."

Phoebus chuckled again and cocked a brow at Mantra. "I suppose this is the young apprentice you wrote about last night?"

Mantra cast a look at Brome, who looked absolutely scandalized. "You _wrote_ about me to somebody?" he said, completely aghast.

Mantra laughed. "Don't be so surprised, Brome; I may keep to myself, but I have friends. Besides, it would do well to get you properly introduced to the village."

"Aye, that way they won't try and cast you out for being a stranger," Phoebus agreed. For some reason that Brome could not identify, the common stream dialect that pervaded otter cultures escaped Phoebus; he spoke like he'd been born and raised in a town like Noonvale.

Mantra nodded, but changed the subject. "So aside from young Brome here, did you see anything on the way up?"

Phoebus shrugged. "No, just a little fire with a cauldron over it. Smelled good, too; hotroot soup, if my nose doesn't lie."

"That's ours," Brome confirmed. "Mantra told me what our patrol route would be, so I set it up where we could grab it on our way past. That way it would warm up while we're on patrol."

Phoebus whistled. "Pretty smart, Brome. You think there's enough left for me?"

Mantra walked to the edge of the roof and beckoned to them. "The sooner we get on patrol, the faster you'll find out. Come on; we'll start at the northern part and work our way down." He drew a square in the dust atop the house, then connected the sides with a cross. "This will be us," Mantra said, indicating the line that stretched from the top to the center of the square. "Each party takes the equivalent of half a square either way. So we go from the north to the center of town, another party goes from the center to the south, another to the east, and another to the west. Then we have a two patrols starting from each corner, and they go in different directions."

"They cover the space between our end point and their corner, then," Brome said, understanding the layout. "But the village isn't a square; how does this work?"

Mantra waved the comment off. "We're close enough to a square that it makes no real difference. We're lucky, though, since our route tonight is a bit shorter than the people going east and west. So do you understand what we're doing, Brome?" Brome nodded. "Good. We should be off, then; I don't want to get told off because we didn't meet up with our cohorts at the northern stretch of the village."

"You know what?" Phoebus said as he jumped off the roof. "I hope we run into some bandits tonight. I've been feeling like hitting something today."

Mantra and Brome descended the ladder to join him. Mantra chuckled at Phoebus' bluntness, but Brome was much more wary. "I'll make sure to keep my distance from you, then," Brome said wryly. Both of them hefted their arms and started off after the otter, keeping a wide berth between themselves and the sling that was still whirling in Phoebus' paw.

* * *

"No, Scrat."

"Hell's teeth Fruga, I'm hungry!"

The offending weasel received a sound cuff to the nose from a pine marten. "I said _no_," the marten gritted. "Wait until they turn their backs, and then we sneak in."

The weasel Scrat rubbed his nose gingerly. "So remind me why we can't kill them? It's just a mouse and a couple squirrels…"

Fruga inhaled slowly then let her breath out, glaring daggers at the weasel. "Because, my slow-witted compatriot, we can't leave any tracks. The chief wants us to bring back lots of food; short, fast trips in and out. Store it all here, then bring it all back to the hideout. And besides, they have a _fox_ and a _wolf_ on their side. Do you want to piss off two of our more powerful vermin kin, knowing full well they are allied with the village?"

Scrat, still not following, just shrugged. "So we get them, too. Kill 'em off and dump their bodies somewhere."

Fruga snarled. "I swear, if the chief didn't have a soft spot for you, I'd rip that –"

"Enough," a low voice growled. Fruga rolled her eyes back, hearing that their 'leader' was back. "What do you want?" Fruga growled back.

A thick-muscled squirrel crawled out of the brush behind them. "I want you two to shut up, so we can get this over with. I'm also hungry, but your whining isn't making those guards go away. So both of you, shut up, or I will rip out your tongues." For effect, the burly creature stuck the blade of his dagger under Scrat's throat.

And yet again, Scrat paid little heed to wise council. "But Morty, I'm –"

The weasel never got to finish his sentence. The blade of the dagger drove up into the skull of the foolish Scrat and slid out like a well-oiled door hinge. To her credit, Fruga never deigned to show the nausea that welled up in her gullet as Scrat gurgled up blood, and she said softly, "Are you sure that was wise, Mortimer? He was one of the master's favourites, you know."

"Favourite or not," Mortimer whispered back, "the chief would be less impressed if we came back with nothing, or if the guards had caught us. I cut our losses; Scrat has been spoiled, and has not learned the ways of a thief. Better that he died now, quickly and silently, than the slow and painful torture our master would have cooked up for him."

Fruga sniggered. "Ever the merciful, aren't you?"

"Self-preservation," the squirrel returned under his breath. "We live only when we have the will. I want to live; do you?" Fruga's silence was all that the squirrel needed to hear. The two of them sat there like snakes waiting to strike; they would have their quarry tonight, even if they had to wait until dawn to get it.

* * *

Author's Note

Well, that was a nice long chapter. Nearly seven-and-a-half thousand words, at last count, and lots of stuff going on. And for the record, I am **not** shipping Felldoh-slash-Brome. Mantra may be, but I'm not; they were friends, extremely close ones to the point of being brothers, but never lovers. Of course you never know; Mantra's whisperings may just catch my ear before long, and…well, let's just let the story progress as-is, shall we?

Most of the healing that Mantra will be teaching Brome is general first aid, but there will also be some herbal and medicinal stuff in there. Expect to see some drugs that are not generally found in the _Redwall_ 'verse, since Mantra can be very inventive. I've made sure to confiscate all of his mushrooms and ganja, though, so don't worry about any of that.

So as you lot can see, this is quickly turning into a more mature fiction. Nothing like I'd originally planned, but what can I say; the plot bunny hit me hard those many months ago when I outlined this chapter. I also felt the need to delve into a bit of Brome's memory from here and take some creative liberties with their relationship. And don't give me that look; Jacques didn't outline every single day or every single minute of their post-escapade life, so I have every license to do the things I did here.

An' don' ye think fer a moment tha' I can't write otter streamslang; Phoebus don' 'ave the slang fer a reason, y'unnerstand? But tha's to come in a future chapters, so patience'd be a wise friend righ' about now.

The teas in this chapter – and future chapters – are based on teas that I've tried from a tea business called Teaopia. Their teas are DIVINE (my favourite is the Monk's Blend), seriously; you should try them.

A little note on anaesthesia and synaesthesia: drugs like weed and 'shrooms generally **do not** induce synaesthesia, but the effects are similar. A true synaesthesia is far more potent and far more difficult to duplicate than what you get from most drugs. Anaesthesia, however, is surprisingly easy to induce: just show your patient a really big needle ;D


	5. Chapter 4: The Plot Thickens

Author's Note

Hi again! Wow, less than a month since my last update. Sadly, I think that's a record.

I think this is an example of my better writing, but I'll let you lot be the judge of that. The dream sequence was my favourite part, and I really enjoyed writing this chapter. The dialogue between the characters was fun, the imaginary world of Dark Forest was so inspiring for me to write, and I'll be damned if Bloodclaw didn't force his way into this fic. I'm scared of the bugger myself, and I'm his creator!

For shout-outs, see last chapter. I've not had the chance to read any more stories since my last update because I've been so busy on this and university, but I maintain what I said in the last chapter.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own Brome or any characters from the original _Redwall _saga universe, but so help me if I catch somebody butchering my characters I'll tan their hide with a switch! Or maybe I'll let Bloodclaw do it; he'd enjoy it, oh yes he would.

* * *

_Chapter Four: The Plot Thickens_

Reeds tickled the edge of the river that Brome and Mantra often used for healer's training. They and the drooping branches of a weeping willow swayed lightly in a breeze. Their peaceful swaying went on undisturbed as Phoebus roared with laughter at Brome from across the stream, while Mantra clutched his sides and bent over double in his merriment. "Come on Brome, beat 'em off with your stick!" Phoebus called over. "It's so big and sharp, it'll have them off you in no time!"

Brome yelled back over the creek, his cheeks burning at the implication. "You're not helping my problem here, Phoebus! Oi! No, leggo!" Brome yanked his footpaw out of the arms of a mousemaid, who promptly huffed in frustration. Brome tried to beat a hasty retreat, but came face-to-face with a trio of mousemaids blocking his path to the creek. "AH!" He fell back on the ground, startled out of his wits by the three mice that now loomed over him.

The fourth came up behind him and lifted him to his feet. "Oh, did my friends scare you Brome?" she cooed in his ear.

"Gah!" Brome immediately jerked out of her grip, stumbling on the ground and beating a hasty crawl back against a tree.

Phoebus watched the proceedings with his arms crossed and a snigger of gaiety on his face. "Would you look at that, our little Brome's gone and gathered a little fan-club. You'd never guess a mouse could change so much in a few weeks, eh Mantra?"

Mantra, who had finally seized a degree of control over his shaking limbs, mustered a simple reply. "It happens."

And happen it did. Over the course of three weeks, the combination of Mantra's training and the daily guard duty had changed Brome immensely. He had lost any baby fat he once carried, and there was a distinctive definition to his shape. The fact that a powerful storm had blown in two weeks past did not hurt matters either; the villagers had promptly enlisted the aid of Brome and Mantra to help repair the damage left by the storm. With all the effort he'd expended over guard duty and the bodily strain of construction and repairs, Brome had toned up significantly.

Mantra also noted that he had a natural "cuteness" to him, which had prompted a sharp cuff upside the nose from Brome. Brome had noticed that the females were beginning to eye him, and it disconcerted him. When he'd asked Mantra why they were staring at him like a freshly-coated candied chestnut, Mantra just patted his shoulder sympathetically and said, "Brome mate, it'd be easier for you to learn the hard way than to have me explain it to you."

Phoebus was much less reserved. When Brome had refused to attend a dinner at a mousemaid's because of guard duty, the otter looked at him and said, "You're turning down a perfectly good courtship? Are you _mad_?"

Phoebus' statement had caused unrest in Brome ever since. Brome remembered the apparent relationship Martin and Rose had shared; there was a mutual attraction between the mice that Brome had then disregarded. His present issues, however, had brought those memories back painfully quick, and he re-analyzed their relationship.

Leading to the conclusion that he was well and truly in deep trouble.

Phoebus watched Brome as he scaled a tree, doing his level best to avoid the seeking paws of one of the taller females. The garrulous young mouse had grown rather quickly on Phoebus, who was fascinated – or flabbergasted – by Brome's strong work ethic and inherent innocence. Phoebus always saw guard duty as a minor inconvenience, but had no trouble going on patrols. The otter had begun to attend Brome's training sessions, witnessing a similar industriousness, and he and Brome had formed an odd sort of camaraderie. It mainly consisted of Phoebus jokingly chiding Brome's mistakes and shortcomings.

Phoebus turned his head over his shoulder so that Mantra could hear him better. "Let's count 'em off then mate; how many has it been?"

Knowing from experience what Phoebus was referring to, Mantra began to tick each of his claws as he counted. "Well let's see…there's that first time a week-and-a-half back, when Brome helped that lost little squirrel find his mum. I think that's when it all started."

Phoebus nodded. "Aye, probably. Even he couldn't shut his mouse friend's gaping hole. Suppose the maid was just at that age."

Mantra cocked an eyebrow and smirked. "Was? I think you mean _is_; isn't that her there, the short one in the crowd?"

Phoebus frowned and shadowed his eyes. "Blimey, I think you're right! She's gotten tubby, she has."

Mantra ticked off another claw. "Then there was the time he met that other maid on patrol, and she invited him to dinner."

"I still say he's an idiotic little git for refusing that."

"And near the end of last week, when we were all having that spear-throwing contest. If I recall, one of the girls passed him a note on the sidelines."

"I still say that it should be illegal to use one of those throwing sticks."

"Nonsense, he just outsmarted you." Another claw. "The last time it happened was yesterday, when that short maid there decided to 'introduce' him to a few of her friends."

"I must have missed that one. What did he do?"

"He ran out so fast I thought I saw smoke from his paws."

Phoebus sniggered before returning his gaze to Brome. The young mouse had climbed even further up, but stopped as he heard an ominous crack. With no further warning, the branch he'd seated himself on snapped with a loud report and Brome came crashing down. Phoebus and Mantra winced not from the thud as his rump crashed into the earth, but at the squealing of the mousemaids as they swarmed him. The onlooking males barely saw Brome's paw as the mousemaids jumped on him to 'see if he was broken anywhere'. When Brome burst out from the quartet, he was yelling at the top of his lungs, "You leave that alone!"

Mantra watched Brome run and the girls run after him. Phoebus sighed. "You want to go and help him, don't you?" the otter asked.

"He _is_ my apprentice," Mantra said. "Besides, you know it'll be you and me sent to clean up the bits."

"Fine, but I have a question first."

"What?"

Phoebus looked seriously at Mantra. "Which piece do you think they'll try to rip off first?"

Mantra smirked. "His stick will be the first to go."

* * *

Brome splashed river water on his face, eager to clean the scratches all over his cheeks. Keeping his eyes closed, he motioned with his right paw. "Pass me that wine, would you? I think some of these are really deep."

Phoebus laughed as Mantra handed Brome the wineskin. "I never thought they were getting _that_ desperate," the fox admitted, looking at the scratches over Brome's body. "You sure you don't want to just give them what they want?"

"No!" Brome snapped, rubbing the wine over the scratches.

Phoebus barked out a laugh. "Ha! Brome, you should consider yourself lucky; if I were half as 'cute' as you, I'd be getting on with ottermaids before you could even say 'Hi!'" Phoebus ducked as Brome threw the stoppered wineskin at him. "Oh, a feisty one too! No wonder the mousemaids want you so bad."

Decidedly ignoring Phoebus, Brome rinsed off his face and looked at Mantra. "Alright Mantra, how bad is it?"

"It's rather small now, actually, but it was huge when we grabbed you out of there."

"Not that!" Brome snapped. "My face, fox."

"Oh that," Mantra said. "Well it's rather skinny and could do with some –"

"Mantra!"

"Oh fine, ruin our fun," Mantra mumbled with a smirk. He ran the backs of his claws over Brome's cheeks. "Hmm…it doesn't seem too bad. As long as you don't scratch at it, there shouldn't be any scarring." He took a cloth from its place on a nearby rock and dabbed at Brome's face. "Pity we can't wrap that up. I hear the maids like it when their mates can't speak."

"Watch it," Brome warned, then swiped the cloth from Mantra. He began to pat his face with the cloth and dry it. "I think I should just hole up at the den from now on."

Phoebus shook his head. "Don't do that! I like having someone other than Mantra to annoy on patrols; makes it less monotonous."

"Speaking of," Mantra cut in. "Have we got any news back on that raid three weeks back?"

Phoebus shook his head. "All we know is that it was two creatures, but we found the body of a weasel outside the boundaries. They made off with a lot of food, too."

Mantra narrowed his eyes. "I don't care about the food," he growled, "I just can't believe they slipped past all of us. What's worse is that they killed four of our guards. Four!"

"It was obviously planned," Brome said, touching one of his deeper cuts gingerly. "That raid was too calculated to be impromptu."

"I still say that there's an inside beast," Phoebus seethed, sitting down on a stump.

Brome waved it off. "You've been saying that ever since we found the bodies. I'll give those raiders this, though: they didn't maim the guards. Each of them only had one stab wound, and only one of those was in the back. The other three were up in the head."

"Funny," Phoebus muttered. "The weasel we found was killed the same way."

"We're dealing with assassins," Mantra reasoned. "Trained beasts."

"Mercenaries, you think?"

Phoebus snorted. "All assassins are mercenaries; they kill for the money. But they're a special type of mercenary. They're professional killers, they are; they make killing their job."

"At least there's only two of them," Brome said, sitting beside Phoebus. "If there were more, I don't think we'd really have much of a chance."

"Of course we would," Phoebus scoffed. "I'll be a dibbun again before I lose to some filthy cutthroat."

"But they're trained cutthroats," Brome reminded him. "I've dealt with hordebeasts before, Phoebus. These aren't just cutthroats. The kills were too precise, too calculated. Besides, most mercenaries travel in small packs, but never less than four or five. They can't survive on their own, so they need to have some friends. Why would there be two –"

"Or three," Phoebus interjected.

"Or three travelling? That's not enough to work well together with the mediocre skills you see in ragtag mercenaries." Phoebus merely huffed, again citing the possibility of an inside job. Brome turned to Mantra. "What do you think, Mantra?" Mantra did not respond. Brome tapped him on the shoulder and again received no response. With slightly vengeful intent, Brome walked over to the stream. Phoebus frowned at Brome, confused, but the mouse just winked and bent over. He came back up with a pawful of water. Without warning, he dumped the lot down Mantra's back.

Mantra immediately jerked up and arched his back. His shout rang over Phoebus' laughter. "Hey! What was that for?"

"To wake you up," Brome said innocently.

Mantra sent him a nasty glare. "Fine, what do you want? I was thinking, and now I've gone and lost my thought."

"I want to know what you think: why would two mercenaries be running around raiding our supplies? Doesn't seem like something they'd do, does it?"

Mantra scowled and crossed his arms. "I'm not sure, really, but I doubt it's to give to the poor."

"Or maybe that's exactly it," Phoebus said. A gleam leapt into his eye, and the other two looked at him curiously. "Think about it," he pressed, "Why would mercenaries or assassins do anything? For payment, right? So who'd be desperate enough to hire mercenaries to raid the village?"

Mantra was still nonplussed. "I'm still not following you mate."

"And I thought you foxes were supposed to be smart," Phoebus muttered. He ignored the venomous glare sent his way by Mantra and continued. "The only people out there who have any resources to hire mercenaries with are other villages or large groups of bandits. Seeing as we have no quarrel with any villages around here, I'd say that means there's a group of bandits that need food."

"You're forgetting something though," Mantra pointed out. "Assuming for a moment that these mercenaries are not contracted, and are actually part of the bandits, then the way we deal with them changes."

Now it was Brome's turn to be confused. "How does it change?"

"Because," Mantra explained, "if these mercenaries are part of the bandit clan then we have nothing to hold over them, no way to bribe them into stopping what they're doing. If there's one thing that mercenaries value above all else, it's something that's valuable or useful. But if we have nothing to hold over them, then they're a real threat. It means that we can't force them to stop, unless we kill their leader or them or somesuch."

Phoebus nodded. "Aye, and since we have nothing to suggest there's a bandit clan roaming around the woods, we can't pinpoint their camp."

Mantra snapped his claws. "Ah! That's what I was thinking about. Come on you two; let's head back to the den. I've got some things there that may help us find things out, but it would be easier to show you than to explain."

* * *

Phoebus raucous laughter was heard the whole way back to Mantra's den. He had not stopped ribbing Brome for the attention that he was getting – and even funnier, the attention that he didn't want. "Lookit that Brome, you've got your first lovemarks. People are going to be asking about those for seasons, especially if you keep scratching at them like that."

"Don't scratch them," Mantra snapped back to Brome. "Would you like to have great light marks on your face for the rest of your life?"

"Easier said than done," Brome muttered, taking his claws away from his face. "Didn't you feel like scratching your leg when it had that gash in it?"

Mantra looked down at his leg, which had long since finished healing. "Of course I did, but that doesn't mean that I scratched at it. Show some willpower, Brome."

"Ah leave the young 'un alone," Phoebus chided. "Besides, it'll be a great story to tell the dibbuns." Phoebus adopted the visage of a curious young mousebabe and imitated their high voice. "Oh papa, tell us how you got those scars on your face!" He switched to a lower, paternal voice. "Well young 'uns, it is really a good story. You see, I got swarmed by a pack of mousemaids and – hah!" Phoebus laughed and ducked the haversack that Brome swung at his head.

"Well I'm glad you find it funny," Brome growled. "I find it itchy."

"That's what she said."

Brome rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Mantra, how have you put up with him all these seasons?"

"Easy," Mantra said over his shoulder. "I just bottled it up and beat the tar out of him every time we sparred after an uneventful patrol."

"I've still got the bruises from last time," Phoebus moaned. "You're a violent sort for a healer."

Mantra waved a paw for silence. "Oh shut up. We're here anyways." He opened the door to the den and walked in with Brome following in his wake.

"Excellent," Phoebus said airily. "First chance I've had to see your den. I suppose you've got pelts and the like strung up for decoration."

"Yes, and I'm saving a spot for yours."

Phoebus sniggered. "Cheeky blighter."

Brome ignored them and dropped down into a cushioned chair. "And to think," he groaned, "we still have patrol after this. When is it going to stop?"

"It won't," Phoebus affirmed, casting his eyes about the den. He let out a low whistle. "Very nice, Mantra. Small and cozy, kind of like mine. Did you carve all these chairs and tables yourself?"

Mantra had disappeared to his room. His disembodied voice called out, "No, only a couple chairs and the entire kitchen and storing areas. I worked for seasons on this place."

Brome craned his neck in a vain attempt to get a good view of what Mantra was doing. He could hear him rummaging through his effects, so he'd probably opened up his chest. "What are you looking for in there?"

"You'll see," was all Mantra replied.

Phoebus continued to look around the cozy den. Then he noticed something on the ground near the door. The otter bent down and picked it up: it was a letter. He read it slowly, then called out to Mantra, "Oi Mantra! We've got us a problem here!"

Brome and Phoebus heard Mantra huff and slam something down. "What is it? Another missive from that Geminus mouse? Just send them on their way; I don't have the time for creatures like that."

Brome took the note from Phoebus and read it. "No…it's another raid. According to this note the Captain left, there was a raid last night after our shift. Nobody died, but he wants us to stay late tonight."

"Good thing I'm getting out this cloak then." Mantra came out of the room with a large green robe and several ropes. "This will help us out a lot. Phoebus, come try this on." Phoebus, entirely nonplussed, rose up from the seat he'd taken and walked over to Mantra, who had dropped the ropes and unfurled the long cloak. Phoebus looked into Mantra's grin and moaned. No other words were needed; Phoebus quickly removed his vest and undershirt. "Not taking off me pants though," the otter muttered.

Mantra circled the otter after he adorned the green robe and lashed the belt about his waist. The fox muttered to himself, and neither otter nor mouse could make a word out of what he was saying. Finally Mantra said, "Alright, I think that's good. Yes, it fits you well. Good; that means we'll have camouflage… Alright, take it off."

At Mantra's allowance, Phoebus undid the belt and sloughed the robe. "So exactly what is it you're doing, Mantra?"

"For starters," Mantra said, collecting the robe. "I'm going to have to get a few more of these; at least one more for you and two for Brome and I each. And secondly, these are going to be our new patrol robes."

"Why?" Brome asked, inquisitive. "What could we use robes for?"

But Phoebus' tactical mind had caught on to the idea. "I see; if we put these on we'll be harder to spot in the brush, so we'll be able to move about the forest without being seen. Good idea, but we carry torches during the dark part of our patrol. We'd have to leave the patrol at nightfall to be able to spy, if that's what you want us to do, and I don't think the Captain will let us off early."

Mantra's eye twinkled. He began to wind a rope around something metal, tightening and loosening and the like until he had a complicated but firm knot. He held up his handywork; in his paw was an iron grappling hook, small but sharp. Phoebus' eyes narrowed and Brome scratched his head. "We'll use these to sneak up into the trees," Mantra explained, gesturing to the mass of rope and metal on the ground next to him. "And we'll camp out in the fringes after nightfall. In the meantime, get some sleep; we'll have to rest up for tonight, and I don't fancy putting my idea to the captain without a fresh head."

Brome wasn't tired, but moved towards the room Mantra had set up for him. "Come on Phoebus," he said. "Might as well tuck in now."

"I'd rather Phoebus stay in my room," Mantra said, narrowing his eyes at the otter. "That way I can keep an eye or two on him, make sure he doesn't break anything."

Brome looked at Phoebus from head to toe, and the otter promptly began a mock-innocent whistle. "S'pose you're right," Brome agreed. "If we leave him out here, he might chance to look in a mirror and get seven seasons bad luck."

"Hey!"

Brome sniggered and turned back to his room. He shut the door and walked over to a small shuttered hole that served as a window. He removed his tunic and unshuttered the windows to allow some air into the muggy hole. The mouse climbed into the bed and pulled the covers over his body, willing himself to sleep.

* * *

Brome's vision swam as he awoke groggily. Trying to make sense of the world around him, he looked at the shadows the sun cast about his room. They had barely moved; less than an hour had likely passed, and yet he had awoken. Brome huffed and turned in his bed, frowning when he heard raised voices from the room beside him.

* * *

"No!" Mantra snapped from the bed. "Seasons be damned Phoebus, are you mad?"

"Why not?" the otter retorted. "He's a mate, he wouldn't mind."

Mantra huffed and sat up in his bed. "Get your rear on that mat and go to sleep, or trade beds with me." Phoebus' frustrated glare had no effect on the fox, who stared back sternly. "I. Said. No. Now go to sleep. Do whatever you want, it won't bother me, but get in bed. Do you recommend walking up to Bloodclaw when you've got bags the size of my brush under your eyes? I'm sure he'd be some impressed, what with you falling asleep on your paws; impressed indeed."

Phoebus scowled. "I swear, you foxes are all so –"

Mantra lay back down. "Oh shut up already. And don't lump me in with that lot; you know as well as Bloodclaw that I'm nothing like my kin."

"That's not what I saw eight seasons back."

That stopped Mantra dead. His fur bristled, and Phoebus let out a triumphant snort. "You forgot I was there, didn't you? I saw what you did to those beasts; you had no –"

Mantra leapt up from the bed and clasped his paw over Phoebus' mouth. "Keep it down you pudden-headed idiot! D'you fancy letting Brome know all the gory details?"

Phoebus yanked Mantra's paw away. He whispered softly. "Oh sod off; he's probably asleep by now. Besides, he's your friend; you think he'd be turned off by a little thing like that?"

"Yes!" Mantra snapped. He walked back to his vanity and crossed his arms irritably. Mantra closed his eyes and thought. What in Hellgates was Phoebus doing? "You haven't been around Brome as much as I have, Phoebus. He's told me things, and he would _never_ approve of what I did to those bloody –"

"'Snot what you did, mate," Phoebus reminded him. "It's what you had to do. I don't think that Bloodclaw would've trusted you otherwise. Then again, he doesn't trust anyone."

Mantra snorted. "Aye. Our glorious captain. Damn paranoid that one." He sighed and lay back down in his bed. "Look, get to sleep. We're going to be up all night, and I'd like to get through it without falling asleep at my post. Maybe we'll talk about it when we have Brome do one of his rounds, or I'll take you on a round or something."

Though not yet satisfied, Phoebus acceded and lay down on his own cot. "Alright, we'll talk about it later. But we _will_ talk about it, Mantra, or you'll get one of my stones up your stem."

"Charming."

* * *

Brome had been listening intently against the wall. What had they been talking about when he woke up? Why was Mantra so snappish today, and what did he do that Phoebus believed was only a 'little thing'? Mantra obviously thought it important, and he was hiding it from Brome.

Brome tried to assuage his sense of betrayal. They had only known each other for a few weeks after all, not even a month. Of course there would be secrets that Mantra would keep from him. Brome had his own secrets as well, secrets he had no intention of sharing. That seemed to do the trick; Brome told himself how hypocritical he would be if he expected Mantra to simply open up and tell him everything. From what Mantra had told him, he had found peace in this village. His past was not tragic, but depressing enough to elicit a sense of empathy from Brome, and the young mouse told himself to be happy with the fact that he'd made friends so quickly after he left home. The mist of sleep quickly enveloped Brome, urging him into a world of dreams.

* * *

Brome's dreams that day were riddled with flashes of his experiences. He watched the light blaze into the world as Keyla dislodged the boulder covering the tunnel out of Marshank. He saw the shaft of moonlight illuminate the swamp in the night as he hid beneath the bulrushes at Felldoh's order. Ballaw and Rowanoak clapped heartily along with his magnificent rendition of the Bobble-O riddle song, their shadows eerily cast eerily by a wild fire.

But forcing their way into his dreams were flashes of his times with Mantra as well. Time spent touring the town, time spent exercising for guard duty; even Phoebus had found his way into Brome's memories.

Soon Brome found himself sitting on a hill overlooking two massive gates which formed an entrance into an even larger forest. He sat completely still, staring at the gates intently. Gates into a forest? Who needed those, or more importantly, why were they needed? He looked behind him. A big stone building, larger than Fort Marshank by far, was enveloped in a green haze. Brome thought he heard something, and cocked his ears; issuing from the great structure were the wails and moans of myriad creatures. Flashes of dull light streamed out of the building and gathered near the foot of the forest gates.

Brome watched in fascination as the flashes of light assumed the form of mice, moles, squirrels, and other woodlanders. Yet they were incomplete; they seemed to be incorporeal, made of nothing but an unidentifiable translucence or mist. Some screamed and wailed, others cried, and the remainder saw fit to sit on the ground and pray.

"Why are we here?" one of the mice cried out. A mole joined the first, her eyes dripping formless tears. "Wot 'appened to moi 'ome?"

One by one the depressed woodlanders began to cry out their woes. Those that had been kneeling in prayer now rose, attempting to console the frightened and the miserable. Brome could not hear what they were saying, but their attempts were not in vain. Soon the cries diminished to nearly inaudible sobs, and Brome walked down the hill to them. He was possessed of a morbid curiosity; where had these poor creatures come from, and why were they here?

Brome had made it halfway down the hill when the gates began to open. With a sense of astonishment, Brome hastened his pace and made to join the masses at the gate.

Two figures came out of the gated wood. One was so large that it stood high over the heads of many of the miserable woodlanders, clad in massive steel armour. The second was so obscured from the translucence of the woodlanders that Brome could not discern its form.

The large figure opened the visor to its helmet, revealing the face of a benign and aged badger. He chuckled, a soothing rumble that eased the trepidation Brome had been feeling. Upon hearing the warm laugh, the crowd immediately ceased their sobbing, though sniffles and the cries of dibbuns could still be heard. The badger spoke softly, but in his voice was a rich, soothing tone. "I am Brocktree, sent here to escort you through these gates. A great tragedy has befallen your land; you have all been claimed by a great plague. Not even the mice of Loamhedge escaped it grasp; many of them are among your numbers."

"But worry not!" the other creature called out. "We have come to bring you to a better place, a place where you can find and be with all your loved ones. There is no plague, no famine, and no war. There is only peace, a peace which we have all worked for."

"Do not fear for those you have left behind," Brocktree said. "They will arrive here one way or another, and you will be reunited. Death comes to all, but it is in how you lived your life that brings rewards."

"You have all lived good lives," the shrouded creature affirmed. "You have lived with others, helped others, and promoted peace wherever you went. You never made war on any creature, and so you are reunited with your loved ones. You have come to Dark Forest."

Brome paled. He was dead? No, that wasn't right; he had only just fallen asleep, and was listening to Mantra and Phoebus just moments ago. And on top of it all – and he ran a paw over his body just to make sure – he was solid. These others were not solid, and so he refused to count himself among their number.

Lord Brocktree peered over the masses at Brome. He frowned and crouched down, whispering something to his companion. "A coloured one?" the creature said in the silence. "What is a coloured one doing here; it's not his time." The creature pushed his way through the crowds, muttering "Excuse me" and "Pardon me" to the crowd, sometimes snapping "Move!" or "Stand aside!" in his impatience.

The form was hooded, but Brome could tell by the brush and paws that it was a squirrel. He wore a long yellow cloak, and carried with him a thick wooden staff. He leaned on it wearily, and Brome could see his eyes clearly in the shadow of the hood; they had a distinctive glimmer to them. Hazel and chestnut-shaped, their piercing gaze roved over Brome.

After several seconds, the creature grunted and lowered his hood. In that movement, however, a blindfold had somehow materialized around his eyes. He said to Brome, "It is not your time. Why are you here, Brome of Noonvale?"

Brome was aghast. "How do you know my name?"

The squirrel made a sweeping gesture at the crowd behind him. "We are the envoys; when anybeast comes to Dark Forest, its name and face and life are etched into our memories for all time."

Brome tugged on the stranger's cloak. "If you are an envoy of the Forest, then you must have seen Felldoh! Tell me, is he in Dark Forest?"

The squirrel shook his head. "Felldoh of Marshank? I am afraid not. He was refused entry to Dark Forest. Rage and vengeance consumed him, and no creature may enter Dark Forest that is so tainted."

Brome's face fell. "Do you know where he is, then? May I see him?"

The envoy looked back at Brocktree. The large badger was herding all the dead woodlanders into Dark Forest. Brome saw the badger returned the squirrel's look and shake his head sadly, and the squirrel sighed. When he returned his face to Brome, there was a look of sincere sadness on his face. "I cannot take you to him. When he was refused entry, he was given a task to atone for his sins. Lord Brocktree believes that he has not yet accomplished his task, and so you cannot see him." Brome's face fell and the squirrel put a paw about his shoulder. "Come with me, young one."

The squirrel led Brome to the top of the hill and pointed at the green-misted structure on the horizon. "Do you see that, Brome? That is Loamhedge Abbey. It has been devastated by a great plague, and both its members and the woodlanders around it are dying by the scores." The squirrel stamped the butt of his staff on the ground in frustration. "There are hundreds of creatures, both woodlander and vermin, dying without cause, and we cannot help them Brome. We can do nothing."

"I would if I could," Brome said in a small voice. The dull lights had gathered anew and streamed towards the gates of Dark Forest. Another group of dead creatures were emerging.

"You cannot, Brome," the squirrel replied sadly. "But you are a good mouse. Continue to train in the healer's arts, and perhaps when you are to join those in Dark Forest your friend will be done his task. But until then, you must live a good life, or else we cannot escort you to this level of Dark Forest, and you will never see your friend."

Brome nodded. "I'll do my best. I will become a great healer and stop this plague from coming."

"There is another plague you must worry about," said the squirrel prophetically. "You shall come across it soon."

Brome nodded. "I suppose it's time for me to go back?"

The squirrel turned and looked over his shoulder. The dull lights were beginning to change into their living forms now. "Aye," he said, "So it seems."

"Then can you do one thing for me?" Brome asked. The squirrel looked at him. "If you ever see Felldoh, tell him that I miss him and do not resent him. He was the best brother I ever had, and I wish for nothing more than to see him when I return at the end of my life."

"And is there a message you would like me to give to your sister?"

Brome nodded solemnly. "Yes. Tell her I miss her, but that I don't blame Martin for her death. I couldn't bear it if she thought I blamed him. And tell her that mum and dad tend to the Laterose at her grave every day."

The squirrel nodded sagely. "I understand. Now you must return home Brome. Return to Mantra, and to Phoebus. And keep a close watch on the village."

Brome was about to reply when the squirrel reached down and pulled a bucket of water out of thin air. He then proceeded to splash the lot of it on to Brome's face.

* * *

Brome came awake with a spluttering yell, and he fell flat out of his bed. Phoebus stood on the other side of the bed with a pail of water and Mantra was visibly pale as he walked over to Brome, checking his temperature and heartbeat. When he affirmed that Brome was not sick, he sighed in relief and said, "Great seasons Brome, you scared the brush off me!"

"Wot're you talkin' 'bout," Brome replied, still swallowing water. He patted himself and looked around. He was no longer on the hill in front of Dark Forest.

Phoebus was also considerably flushed. "You gave us a scare there, mate," he said, setting down the bucket. "You were muttering in your sleep, and I could swear I heard you say 'Dark Forest'."

Mantra looked at Brome seriously. "What happened, Brome?"

Brome blinked, still trying to collect his thoughts. Who was that squirrel he'd been talking to? Could it have possibly been Felldoh? Mantra shook him slightly, bringing his attention back to the real world. "Oh," Brome said dazedly. "I…it was just a dream."

"More than just a dream it seems," Phoebus muttered. "Most dreams don't make you thrash about like a landed fish." He gestured towards a shattered vase on the ground near the foot of the bed.

Brome made to apologise, but Mantra shook him again. "Brome, focus: what happened?"

The young mouse shook his head again. "I…I saw a big abbey…I think it was that Loamhedge place you were talking about, Mantra." Mantra nodded for Brome to continue. "It was all covered in green mist, and I watched the creatures there die. It…it was horrible." Tears began to bead down his face. "They were dying, and I couldn't stop it. And then I saw a big badger and a squirrel, called themselves the envoys to Dark Forest."

"You saw the gates of Dark Forest?" Phoebus gasped.

"Aye," Brome said. "And all the creatures, they were going into it…then the squirrel showed me Loamhedge again, and how more woodlanders were dying. It was so horrible!" Brome let out a throaty gurgle and began to cry freely.

Mantra placed a paw on Brome's shoulder and looked seriously at Phoebus. "Loamhedge, laid low by a sickness. Of all the places…"

Phoebus had gone a shade paler. "Aye mate. Never thought that'd be the place that fell to a sickness. But how do we know? What if it really was just a dream?"

"I hope it was," Brome sobbed. "But it was terrible. I didn't feel it while I was there, I was so confused, but it was horrible." He looked at Mantra. "What if it really happened?"

Mantra sat down with his back against the wall. He looked at Brome with an indeterminate expression. It was some time before he spoke. "I doubt the plague would come up here. The abbey is some two or three season's hard march to the south. And there's a large span of empty land between it and Mossflower, which is about half a season or so south of us. Any creature that carried the disease would be dead long before they ever reached Mossflower, and there's a wildcat regime that prevents any creature trespassing in Mossflower lands. I don't think it'll reach us."

Brome was relieved, but he couldn't stop sobbing. He hadn't felt it before, but the picture of all those poor creatures and the wails of the dead rang in his head. It all made an acute feeling of sickness and tragedy.

It was a long time before anybeast spoke. It was Phoebus who did so first. The otter looked out of the window at the sinking sun and said, "Come on. We'd better get our tails in gear, or Bloodclaw will have our guts for garters." Silently, Brome and Mantra complied, getting up off the floor and following Phoebus out the door.

* * *

Brome stood in front of the door to the main guardhouse. Standing between him and Mantra was Phoebus, wearing the green cloak and his usual weapons. The only thing missing was his shortbow; in the case of an attack, a sling would be better use for stealth. He wore a pair of wrists over the cloak, each one sporting one of his small throwing axes. Mantra had taken the grappling hooks; they lay draped across his shoulder over his usual belt of throwing knives. Brome alone had not taken any effects of war; he had only his javelin and guardsbeast's jerkin.

He had little time to dwell on his dream. At the moment, they were awaiting admission into Bloodclaw's cell. Brome had heard about the captain of the guard, but had never actually met him. He often listened to the captain shouting at somebeast through the walls of his guard cell, but apparently few creatures ever had contact with him. Mantra had refused to give Brome any information, citing that Brome would not believe him.

Captain Bloodclaw was an odd sort, surrounded by an air of mystery and suspicion. He preferred to work alone, and while on-duty would confine himself to a cell he'd fashioned for himself. When he left, Brome never saw his face. The captain always wore a large grey hooded cloak, covering his face and body entirely. The only thing that ever peeked out was the very tip of his tail, which was a brilliant snow white. Nobody, not even the boisterous Phoebus, had ever sought to cross Bloodclaw. Rumours of savagery surrounded him, but they were always accompanied by citations of honour and kindness. A lesson Brome soon took out of the myriad rumours was that the only way to survive an encounter with Bloodclaw was to keep on his good side.

"So," Mantra had warned him on the way into the village, "you're to keep your gob shut and let Phoebus do the talking. He and Bloodclaw go back a ways, before I even came within a league of this village. Don't speak unless spoken to, and above all _do not_ call him by his name. It's Captain, Sir, or Captain Bloodclaw."

Abhorrent as Brome's dream was, its horror was quickly replaced by a creeping dread. What was Bloodclaw like, and how would he react to a mouse for a guard? Mantra had apparently not even alerted the Captain that they'd found a third member for their patrol party, so this would be the first time Bloodclaw himself would acknowledge Brome as a part of his guardsbeasts. A chill crept down Brome's spine as he thought of what the mysterious captain might say.

"Enter."

Brome had not even heard the command at first. His only indication that they were to enter Bloodclaw's cell came from the fact that Phoebus and Mantra had moved forward. Brome quickly followed suit, doing his level best to not stand out among his comrades.

The inside was dim. Red-tinted curtains were drawn over the windows, giving the room a rustic feeling. The quarters were Spartan; there was little in the way of decoration, and the only furniture was a table with a corresponding chair and a cot to one side. Otherwise there was only a stove with cast iron pans and cauldrons, and a small table to the side which Brome assumed held any cutlery. Not only was this Bloodclaw's cell, Brome realized, but quite possibly where he lived.

Bark scrolls were organized neatly along the table, along with charcoal for writing. A single sheet lay pinned between two stones, keeping it flat enough for writing. A few scrolls were sealed to the side, obviously letters to be delivered. Brome could not make out the mark on the seal, but the markings he could see did not seem familiar.

At the window staring out was the massive figure of the captain. His hood was raised, but the cloak was drawn back. His paws were held behind his back under the cloak, and the muscles on his arm seemed to bulge under the silvery fur. His legs were likewise furred, and even under the softness of his coat looked hard as a rock. His tail, which hung almost limply off to the side, gave powerful flicks every few seconds. Strapped to his waist and gleaming in the red light was a sword; sheathed as it was, Brome saw naught but its leather-wrapped handle, sharp silver crossguard, and garnet pommel-stone.

Without turning, the captain said, "You ask for audience Phoebus, _da_? Vhat is it you vish to discuss…?"

Brome was disturbed by the foreignness of Bloodclaw's speech. But even more disturbing was the softness of his voice: it was smooth and sleek, like his fur, but seemed to command authority and immediate obedience.

Phoebus stood to attention – an uncharacteristic act which Brome would have made a jibe about, had the circumstances been different – and said smartly, "Sah, we believe we may have found a plan to help root out the mercenaries raiding our village."

Bloodclaw did not change positions. He stood stock still, but said, "And vhat is this plan? How is it you think you can 'root out' these mercenaries?"

"Sah, it may be better if you were to see." Taking Phoebus' advice, Bloodclaw turned and faced the trio. His face remained hooded, but a silver breastplate with the insignia of a howling wolf became visible. The light that gleamed off it seemed blood-red from the tinted curtains, and as Bloodclaw looked Phoebus and his party up and down his body shifted, making the breastplate seem iridescent. He moved towards them, each step slow and graceful. Without removing his hood, he eyed Phoebus up and down.

It was a short time before the captain spoke, then a gruff barking sound came from the hood. It took a moment for Brome to recognize it as laughter. When Bloodclaw stopped laughing, he said to them, "A green cloak? _Malchik_, a green cloak will not create a vall to keep out the raiders."

"Permission to speak, sir," Mantra said suddenly, keeping his eyes fixed straight ahead, not looking into the hood.

"Granted, Mantra. Explain yourself, please."

"Sir," Mantra said, "the cloak will serve as camouflage. I plan to have copies of this cloak made. We can then send a patrol throughout the area, which can intercept any small raids or spy on mercenary movements."

"Is good plan," Bloodclaw said, "but a problem arises in execution. Ve haff neither strong beasts to do this – not including Phoebus – nor many creatures to take over for their patrols. Ve cannot send good creatures out vith no guarantee that they vill come back, _da_? As I am sure you are avare, Mantra, these raids are carried out by professional beasts. Who vould I send to fight them?"

"I would volunteer our party, sir," Mantra said.

Bloodclaw froze. It was several moments before he showed any other response. He said nothing immediately following, but instead raised his hood and narrowed his eyes at Mantra. Brome very nearly gasped.

Bloodclaw was a wolf. Brome had heard of the wolves, fearsome fighters of the North-East. A white mask of fur covered the majority of his face and the inside of his ears, but grey fur shot with sable permeated the rest of his coat. Bloodclaw's hackles rose slightly, revealing a pristine set of sharp fangs. The eerie light cast the scars riddling Bloodclaw's face into stark relief.

"With all due respect sir," Phoebus said carefully, "I think our party may be the best to send."

Bloodclaw did not immediately shift his gaze, but after a few moments he looked seriously at Phoebus. "Phoebus, are you mad? None of you haff any experience in var."

"I do sir."

The words were out of Brome's mouth before he even realized it, and he clamped a paw over his own mouth. Bloodclaw raised a dark brow. "You, little mouse? Vhat experience do you haff?"

Brome lost his voice. Bloodclaw's brilliant yellow eyes bored into him, freezing him in place. Mantra spoke for his apprentice. "Sir, he is a veteran of the lands to the north. He fought against Badrang, the late tyrant of Fort Marshank."

"Kviet!" Bloodclaw snapped. Mantra flinched and silenced himself, but showed no other emotion. "I asked the mouse, Mantra, not you." He turned back to Brome. "So you fought against Badrank, did you little vun? Vell, this is a…how do you say, 'interesting turn of events'. Tell me, vhat vas your role in the fight against Badrank?"

Brome gulped. "I-I was a healer, sir, but I also fought as a javelin-beast."

"That vould explain your choice of veapon on your patrol, _da_?"

"Yes sir, Captain Bloodclaw."

Bloodclaw turned away from Brome and walked back to the window. He stared out of the hole, his expression unreadable. It seemed that he had a penchant for dramatic pauses, as it was again several moments before he spoke, and when he did it was in a hesitant tone. "Tell me, _boychik_, do you know vhy they call me Bloodclaw?" He turned to Brome and removed the claws from where they were folded behind his back, hidden by the cloak. Unlike the rest of his body, his paws were stained the red-brown of dried blood. At Brome's astonished expression, Bloodclaw chuckled. "At first I only dyed my hands red, to strike fear into my enemies. I vould do the same to my muzzle; it make me look savage and cruel, _da_? But eventually, I not need it. My home is torn by var, Brome, and my pack is dead for many seasons now. I come south-vest, thinking I could escape var. I could not, so I decide to bring var to enemies, to the vermin who vould attack me on the road."

Bloodclaw turned his stare to Mantra. "You are right, _malchik_; your team is ideal for stealth. But somethink I learn very fast in this land of yours is that stealth and – vhat is vord, 'subterfuge'? – subterfuge only makes sufferink last longer."

Bloodclaw returned his gaze to Phoebus. "Tell me, Phoebus; vhat do you think of this plan? You haff more experience."

Phoebus narrowed his eyes, but otherwise kept them locked with Bloodclaw's. "Sah, I believe this will help provide a solution to our troubles. It is not a solution in itself, but is the means with which we can find a solution."

Bloodclaw nodded. "And yet, ve still haff issue of who vill replace you if you leave?"

"We will still be patrolling, sah. The patrols along the border are most important; I believe that sacrificing a single patrol inside the village will be beneficial, as it is no great loss compared to the gain of a spy."

Bloodclaw nodded, and placed a single claw to his chin. He turned away again, this time clearly deliberating the subject. After a time, he said, "I vill haff to think on this. You haff permission to create copies of that cloak, Mantra, but you and your party are to patrol your usual route tonight. I vill summon you vhen I haff made my decision. You and Phoebus are dismissed. Smallish mouse, I vish you to stay a while. There are things I vould like to discuss vith you."

Mantra and Phoebus shared a glance, but said nothing. They saluted respectfully and backed out of the quarters, leaving Brome alone with the stony wolf.

Brome watched them both go. When the door closed behind them, his eyes roved about the cell in a panic. Each time they would come to rest on the entrancing yellow eyes of Bloodclaw. The wolf stood stock still, staring intently at Brome. Bloodclaw placed a paw on the sword at his side, and Brome's blood turned to ice.

* * *

Author's Note

I don't care what species they are; girls in that age group _always_ have a sexually-rampant fan-girl stage, and some don't even get out of it!


End file.
